


leap days

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History has it that there were three sons of York, one for each of the suns that appeared in the pale sky at Mortimer's Cross. But what if the fourth one didn't die at Wakefield Green? A series of oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_irydioner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irydioner/gifts).



> So, my first Wars of the Roses multichapter. Updates may very well be a little sporadic, because I'm really quite busy with this thing called school. Oh well. This is for you, the_irydioner, I hope you like it. :) Again, based on my favourite historical personage, so click that little comment box at the bottom of the page, I'd really love to hear from you! Loyaulte. xxxx.

_December 1460._

_Wakefield Green._

He never thought he’d owe a debt to a Lancastrian, never believed that the day would dawn where he’d be thanking God Almighty that the said Lancastrian arrived when he did. But the moon has turned blue, and the Duke of Somerset is standing before him, looking down with weary eyes.

Edmund leans his head against the railing, the rope biting deep into his wrists, his armour weighing, bruising his shoulders. Pain chases itself up and up his leg from the heat of the battle, but he cannot bring himself to care. His father is dead. He is alive, still, but for how much longer he does not know.

“Have him taken to York. He can join his cousin until they be ransomed.”

“Jesu, Beaufort, are you out of your wits? We have him in our grasp! Get rid of him like we did his bastard sire and be done with it.”

“Be you deaf as well as blind? My brother be a prisoner of the Yorks. If we kill Rutland, he’ll be dead before the day’s out. I’ll not have him harmed, is that understood?”

The other concedes, steps back. There is the rasp of a dagger against a scabbard, and then a barked order. The common foot-soldiers step forward to pull Edmund to his feet, but the exhaustion and the pain are too much and before he even knows it, he’s falling into a blackness tinted with blue.

 

 

 They take him to York Castle, lock him in the room next door to Johnny Neville, his favourite cousin, and leave him there. All he can do is lie on the bed or limp around on his bandaged leg, his thoughts winding in sinuous circles, worrying about his lady mother, his little siblings, Ned. Ned’s out there somewhere at the head of an army, facing danger straight in its fanged jaws.

Edmund doesn’t know what he’d do if his brother was slain on the field. The maids that bring him food are very susceptible to a little charm, inclined to talk of the handsome Duke of York as long as a Lancastrian retainer is not within earshot. They think him invincible, particularly after word seeps north of Ned’s truly spectacular victory at Mortimer’s Cross, and all Edmund can do is shake his head. His brother’s only human, no matter what people are saying of him.

 

 

 It’s three months later, and the fresh spring air is brushing firmly against his face as he stands, waiting, next to Johnny, straight and tall now that his injury has all but healed. Marguerite d’Anjou has fled, and his brother, _his brother_ is King of England. Edmund could scarce believe it when he heard, but his brother has always been a crowd-pleaser and it’s little wonder that the citizens of England prefer him to the half-wit who had the throne before.

The aldermen of York are shifting restlessly, shooting sideways glances at he and Johnny, but they just stare straight ahead, faces blank masks. There’s no saying what price Ned might choose to exact upon York as penalty for its loyalty to the wrong side, no saying how he feels about the death of their lord father. At least they thought to get rid of the heads.

There is the sound of hooves, then, a clattering, filling the streets. The bystanders raise a passable cheer, and then Ned is there on his stallion, looking every inch the King with Johnny’s brother Warwick on a horse as coal black as Ned’s is blinding white. The two rein in, and in an instant Ned is off his horse, coming towards them, a smile splitting his face apart.

“Your Grace,” Edmund says, the words foreign on his tongue, but before he has a chance to bow, to kiss his brother’s coronation ring, Ned has him in a crushing embrace.

“Jesus God but you did give us all some bad moments,” he says, and Edmund laughs as they step out of each other’s arms.

“It’s good to see you too, Ned.”

“That’s all you have to say to me? ‘It’s good to see you?’”

“What ever were you expecting? A feast with minstrels and dancing girls? She only left last night.”

“I’ll settle for a good dinner and your company. Christ, I’ve missed you.”

Edmund smiles, his brother’s warmth suffusing through him. “Come on, you’d better deliver pardons to your subjects. They won’t stop worrying until you do.”

 


	2. A Foreign Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely kudos and comments. I tried in vain to find a real-live wife for Edmund, but failed miserably, so she is made-up, I'm afraid, but she does come from a real family. If you're interested in the details, comment, and I'll elaborate there. Loyaulte xx.

**One**

_Westminster Palace_

_February 1463_

“You wanted to speak to me, Ned?”

Edmund rubs the sleep out of his eyes as his brother opens the door of the inner chamber, goes inside.

“Obviously.”

“Whatever be so urgent that you felt the need to drag me out of my lovely, warm bed…”

“Where you were doubtless doing anything but sleeping.”

“Well, she was very beautiful and I’ve had to send her away.”

“What’s her name?”

“Do you really think I’d tell you?”

Edward laughs. “Perhaps you’d take pity on me, your poor King.”

“You don’t need any help at all with the ladies. They do take one look at you and fall over their feet.”

“And God bless them for it.”

Edmund smiles, briefly. “Go on. What be it that you wished to tell me?”

“Your marriage.”

Edmund groans. “Didn’t the previous plans for that French duchess fall through?”

Ned waves his hand dismissively. “That be Warwick’s idea, not mine, and if I’m to marry their precious little princess then I do need you free for an alliance with another nation.”

“What other nation are you considering, exactly?”

“The Holy Roman Empire. Spain is overrun by Moors and we’re already considering Burgundy for our Meg.”

“Fair enough. Who would it be?”

“That be the news I had just this evening. It seems as though the Holy Roman Emperor’s little niece is of an age to be wed. He rather fancies her as a royal duchess.”

“What do you know of her?”

“She’s fifteen. The ambassador be singing her praises all about court – fair of face, the usual. Her mother bore nine living children, so she’s of fertile stock. What do you say?”

“How could I refuse?” and they both laugh, Ned turning to pour wine.

“To your marriage, then.”

“To my marriage.”

 

 

It takes weeks to sort the marriage settlement, but eventually word reaches them that his bride-to-be has reached the port town of Brake, is setting sail within a few days. He’s the first of the York brothers to be married, he thinks, as he sits in the garden in the fiery glow of an early spring sunset, and then he can’t help but wonder what she will be like, this Katharina of Saxony.

Then he tells himself it doesn’t matter. She’s his wife, he doesn’t have to love her, though secret, often-suppressed part of him hopes his cynical side will be proven wrong.

 

 

Ned watches as his court array themselves in a fan of sumptuous silks and glittering jewels around the hall, unobtrusively darting looks towards his brother. He’d wanted a private meeting for his brother and the girl, but Warwick had told him plain out that Edmund is the heir to the throne for the moment, and it will do the court good to see the girl he is to marry.

So here they are.

There is an announcement, and then the doors are opened and a tiny figure attired in green velvet is there, advancing slowly and nervously down the lines of staring, whispering courtiers. She stops in front of Ned and Edmund, and sinks slowly into a graceful curtsey.

Ned gestures for her to rise, and she does, slowly, looking between them.

“Lady Katharina,” he says. “You be most welcome.”

She looks completely at a loss, and Ned raises his eyebrows at his brother, who quickly steps down and offers his arm, leading her to the quiet safety of the antechamber behind the throne. Immediately, the court explodes in chatter and Ned presses his fingers to his temples at the sudden headache that throbs against his skull before turning to follow them.

 

 

“So, what do you think?” Ned is lounging in his chair, Warwick standing at his shoulder. Edmund paces up and down in front of them.

“I do admit I had a surprise when it transpired that she doesn’t speak English.”

Ned pulls a rueful face. “Well, your French be good enough, I suppose.”

“Enough. I managed to inquire after her journey and her health.”

“It be a start. The wedding’s not for another two weeks. You do have plenty of time to grow accustomed to each other,” Warwick says.

“And she be so small. Like a child.”

“Well, I didn’t think to inquire about her stature from the ambassador. She be comely, though, at least he didn’t lie about that.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, then. If you be happy, I had better dismiss the two of you ere my mistress arrives - unless you want to stay of course…” Ned’s eyebrows move up and down suggestively, and Edmund snorts.

“Since your taste in women be just short of appalling, Your Grace, then I shall bid you goodnight. Coming, cousin?”

“Yes, of course. Goodnight, Ned.” Warwick’s tone is faintly amused, and he follows Edmund out of the Painted Chamber, shutting the door carefully behind them.

“You do not have to do this,” Warwick says as they begin to work their way through the endless mazes of deserted corridors, lit only with the flare of flickering torches every twenty yards. “There is still a French duchess waiting for you if you would like one.”

“I thought that it did not work out.”

“It would not take much work to put it back together.”

“Ned does say, and I am inclined to agree, that if he is to make an alliance with France, I must marry into another country’s royalty. You would do well to remember that Ned is the King here, and I do his bidding, and his bidding only.”

Warwick nods, slowly, the dancing orange light throwing stark shadows across his face. “Your loyalty be commendable, cousin.”

 

 

The wedding is a grand affair in Westminster Abbey with all the splendour of a royal occasion, and Edmund cannot wait until it is over. His feelings towards his new bride are ambivalent at best – she’s a sweet girl, her lack of English notwithstanding, but she doesn’t fire his blood or make an impression in the back of his mind so even when she’s not there he thinks of her. It’s not that she’s not pretty. She is, in a very delicate way, like the first flush of spring that is trampled so easily underfoot by late storms. Her whole being is a shadow of something that could be so vibrant, her face as pale as finely-worked lace, her hair the colour of gold thread and her eyes like a northern sky.

Today, he can feel her nervousness radiating off her as she repeats the vows laboriously after the priest, her accent twisting the words into tangles of what they should be, see the way the blue velvet weighs heavily on her slender shoulders. Her hand is cold in his as he slips the ring over her finger, trying to smile reassuringly.

She smiles back, a little. It’s a beginning.

 

 

Somehow, he manages to get Ned to send them off to bed alone, without the usual contingent of his bride’s ladies and their drunk guests. Ned’s had a fair bit to drink as well, and Edmund wishes he could have followed his brother’s example, but he knows that it would be unfair on Katharina to be in his cups on their wedding night, knows that he could so easily do something he’d regret. So he’s completely sober as he takes her hand and leads her out of the door, pausing to say goodnight to his lady mother and his two younger brothers who have come down from Yorkshire for the celebrations, and then it is just him and his fragile little wife, alone as he leads her up to the bedchamber that has been prepared for them.

He lets her in first, and bolts the door behind them. The fire is crackling away cheerfully to itself, and a flagon of wine and a loaf of bread have been left out. Katharina is standing with her back to him, her arms wrapped around herself. He can see that she is trembling.

“It be alright,” he says in hesitant French. “I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.”

She turns, then, and he can see the tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He tries again.

“Don’t be frightened.”

He watches as she takes a long, slow breath, as her chest moves up and down. Then she takes a step towards him, and he reaches out and carefully draws her into his arms, kissing the dampness away from her cheeks, and then seeking her mouth with his own.

It’s gentle, and sweet, and he feels her relax against him as the minutes tick by. She tastes of wine, and smells like the flowers that are still woven into her hair, and then all of a sudden, he forgets he’s supposed to be feeling ambivalent as she draws back, something shyly alighting in her china-blue eyes.

He turns her around, helps to undo the laces at the back of her dress. The air is charged between them, and as he pulls his doublet over his head, leads her towards the bed draped with rich arras, and shuts the curtains on the world, he realises that he was a fool to think her any less than utterly beautiful.

 

 

In the morning, he wakes with her head pillowed against his chest, her hair flung out across the counterpane like honey-coloured silk. He watches, fondly, as she yawns like a cat, and settles herself down again. “Good morning,” he says, and laughs as she tries the words out on her tongue, before reverting to French.

“Did you sleep well?”

She pushes herself up on one elbow, and smiles, bashful. “Yes, thank you. And you?”

He nods, starting to tickle her sides. “I do think we’ve enough time before they all come calling. What do you say, lady wife?”

She giggles, and shrieks, and soon enough the tickling has turned into something much more pleasurable, but Edmund is sure that his little wife does not mind in the slightest.


	3. New Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no update! Sorry guys :) If you have any ideas for how Edmund could fit into the whole George/Warwick scheming, then I'd be really grateful!!! L xx

**Two**

_May 1464_

Springtime is upon them once more, and with the rush of warm weather comes a spate of battles. Quite frankly, Edmund is ready for it all just to end, but discontented lords don’t seem to care about the peace of the land, and so they’re riding north. Again. The road is beaten down beneath the hooves of the advance guard, and he is riding alongside Ned and their particular friend, Will Hastings, thinking about the coming battle, Katharina, and the way her stomach swells pleasingly under her velvet gown. It's a boy, she says, she's sure of it, and he couldn't be happier, although he wishes it were for more fortuitous reasons that he knelt for her blessing before the long journey.

"Halt!" Ned's voice cuts sharply through his reverie, and Edmund pulls his horse up a little too fast, battling for control for a second and wondering if it's an ambush, is it an ambush...his hand drops to his sword, but no, it's not, it's just a woman, the most beautiful woman he's ever seen with two little boys either side of her.

He doesn't need to look at Ned's face to know that his brother is wearing the expression that he always does when he sees a lovely girl. He sighs, and runs his fingers along the leather of his reins as his brother dismounts. Hastings pulls a wry face at him, and Edmund rolls his eyes back. It's about time Ned got married, but he's been putting it off over and over again - but then again, not even the holy bonds of matrimony would deter Ned from his endless skirt-chasing.

They have a conversation in low, quick tones after she has risen from a fluidly elegant curtsey, and then Ned glances around. "Hastings, go on with the men. Edmund, with me. Lady Elizabeth Grey, this is my brother, Edmund of York."

"A pleasure, sir," Elizabeth Grey says, sinking into another curtsey. Edmund gives a short bow, and falls into step behind them, thinking about Katharina again.

 

 

They are Lancastrian. Of all the women in the country, Ned has to fall for a _Lancastrian._ Edmund cannot quite believe it, but as Ned says quite candidly, any family would turn their coats in a trice if their king was interested in their daughter.

But then something happens, Edmund can well easily guess what, and suddenly the name Elizabeth Woodville is taboo. It's not mentioned. Not ever. Ned goes around wearing his careless charm like battle armour, but everyone can see how pale he is, how he sits and pushes his food around his plate, how the circles under his eyes grow bigger and darker every day. Finally, Edmund has had enough.

“Are you going to tell me what be the matter, or do I have to wrangle it out from you?” he asks, sitting with one leg tucked under him on Ned’s bed whilst Ned paces up and down, the flickering firelight casting strange shadows over his face.

“It’s never been like this before.”

Edmund sighs. “You saw the woman twice. You’ll forget eventually, you always do.”

“But I won’t, Edmund. It’s been nigh on a month. I don’t want to forget her.”

“Ned, she’s like every other bit of skirt…”

“She’s not, though. She isn’t.”

“Granted, she’s beautiful, but there are plenty of other beautiful women…”

“How did you feel when you fell in love with Katharina?”

Edmund pauses, looks up at his brother. “I don’t really know. It just sort of happened, one minute I was indifferent, the next it was like the sun had burst over the horizon.”

“I feel like I’m sleepwalking. I have to see her again.”

“We can arrange it…get it out of your system.”

“I don’t just want to bed her and be done with it, I want her in my life.”

“You want to marry her. A woman you’ve met all of twice?”

“Yes,” Ned turns on him. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.”

 

 

It’s a quiet, clandestine little ceremony in the Woodvilles’ chapel, and Edmund only has to see how _happy_ Ned is to give his grudging approval, to be a witness even though it’ll bring all manner of storms down on their heads.

The second it’s done, the newly-weds melting away into the woods like air, Edmund is on a horse riding south as fast as he can, and every sore, bruising mile disintegrates into nothing the minute he bursts into the solar at Baynard’s Castle to see his tiny little wife rising to her feet, all surprised, beaming smile and soft, warm embrace.

 

 

It comes out, as everything eventually does in a burst of anger exploding about their heads, and of course Edmund’s on Ned’s side, he always is, isn’t he, though he can sympathise a little with Warwick and how it feels to have plans you’d thought were set in stone wrenched out from under your feet as though they were nothing more than an irritating rug.

But it’s done, and there’s nothing Warwick can do about it.

 

 

Queen Elizabeth of the House of Woodville arrives late one June morning, riding into the courtyard at Westminster with her endless family displayed proudly behind her, and her golden head held high. Ned greets with a passionate kiss on the steps. Inside Edmund is laughing at the look on his mother’s face, at the look on Warwick’s face. Katharina slips her little hand into the crook of his elbow and smiles up at him.

“No-one looks very happy, do they?” she whispers.

“No, they don’t.” He brushes his thumb across the back of her hand. “What do you think of her?”

“I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve met her. She’s very beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

She laughs, quietly. “You?”

“A touch arrogant, perhaps, but then so is Ned. They match each other well, I think.”

She’s about to ask more when Ned is leading his new queen up the stairs and straight towards them. She drops down into as low of a curtsey as she can manage with her belly in the way, but Elizabeth catches her elbows before she can get much further than a slight bend of the knee. “Don’t,” she says, smiling. “You look as if you’re going to go into labour at any second.”

Katharina can feel the stares of Warwick and his family, the wondering at the informality of Elizabeth’s tone. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Ned steps forward then, and takes Elizabeth’s arm. “This is Duchess Katharina of York, the second lady of the court, and you’ve already met my brother.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Elizabeth is smiling widely, and Katharina feels herself smiling back. She’s nicer than Katharina would have expected, or maybe this is just because it’s all so new. “How long until you go into confinement, Duchess?”

“She’s been putting it off in order to greet you properly,” Edmund says, and she feels his hand on the small of her back.

Elizabeth laughs, a low, throaty laugh that would make any man come running, and allows Ned to lead her to greet an angry looking Warwick who is standing behind.

“Now what do you think?” Katharina asks, rising on her tip-toes to reach his ear.

“My opinion’s increased,” he says. “It looks as though the two of you will be great friends.”

Katharina clasps her hands together, her blue eyes wide and innocent and gentle. “I hope so.”


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long - thank you for all your comments and kudos! I'd really really like input as to where I can take this with the Warwick/George issue - obviously having Edmund alive messes all of that up a bit, and I'm not sure how to play it. Ideas are very welcome. Loyaulte xxx.

**Four**

Her screams echo from inside the confinement chamber and Edmund lets his head drop onto his knees. It’s been hours – hours and hours and _longdragging_ hours and he wishes it would stop. It’s like fire running through his veins, hearing her in this much _pain._

“It cannot be much longer now,” Ned says from beside him, his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Elizabeth does say that first confinements are the worst.”

Edmund makes some sort of noise of agreement and slumps down to rest his head on his knees. He knows what a sight they make, the King of England and the Duke of York sitting on the floor outside of a woman’s birthing room like a pair of frightened children. At the very least, Warwick says, they should be in chairs and getting roaring drunk to toast the arrival of Edmund’s son and heir, but he backed off when Edmund gave him a freezing glare and said something along the lines of not wanting to have taken leave of his senses at such a fragile moment in his life. Today, he could lose her.

“Stop thinking about it.” Ned’s voice is calm. “It’s not going to happen.”

“I can’t, Ned.” His voice is muffled. He can hear everyone in the main chamber outside, milling around and discussing and laughing. “She be so small…what if…”

“My wife is no witch, but I do know she’d resort to anything to keep your Katharina alive. Elizabeth and the midwives do know what they are doing. She’ll be fine.”

“I’ll remind you of this when it’s Elizabeth screaming in the birthing chair.”

“I don’t doubt you will. Have you decided a name?”

“For a boy, Katharina does want Frederick, for her uncle. I do like Cecily for a girl, after our mother and she does not seem to mind.”

“Strong names both. If it’s a girl, we do have to arrange the best marriage we can for her.”

“The child is not even born yet, Ned.”

“Politics, dear brother.”

“I would see any child of mine happy in their holy vows, though.”

Ned gives him a piercing, ice-blue look. “I shall try.”

Katharina screams on.

*

It is nearly nightfall by the time the screaming stops. Ned has taken to the wine and is half asleep against the wall. Edmund is picking at his fingernails, trying to shut out the world, so when silence falls it takes a few seconds for him to notice. Then he’s on his feet and Ned is blearily shaking himself awake.

“What be happening?”

Edmund holds up a finger for silence, and all of a sudden, there is the weak, breathy cry of a baby. His knees wobble and it takes extreme force of will to stay on his feet. Ned is up in an instant and has flung his arms around Edmund, pulling the younger man close. “Congratulations, brother.”

“Thank you,” Edmund says. His head is spinning, full of clouds. The door creaks open, and Elizabeth stands there with a wide smile on her face and blood under her fingernails. She would not be smiling if Katharina were dead, Edmund thinks.

“Your Grace of York, you have a son,” she says, stepping forward and out of the way. Edmund almost does not hear her – his feet carry him forward into the chamber and all he can see is Katharina. She looks pale and exhausted, propped up against the pillows, but her smile and the bundle of blankets in her arms light up the darkened room.

“Edmund,” she says, looking up.

He feels as though he has taken flight as he crosses the room and settles down onto the edge of the bed, leaning to brush a lock of damp hair from her sweat-soaked skin. “Look at him.” Her voice is hoarse. “Isn’t he the most perfect thing?”

Looking into his son’s deep blue-grey eyes, Edmund can only nod.

*

He’s just come from his son’s nursery – in all honesty, he could spend hours hanging over that cradle, just watching the tiny starfish fingers flutter and the bemused faces the baby pulls at the world – when a hand closes around his upper arm and drags him into an alcove. He looks around, expecting it to be one of his brothers, but his eyes meet those of Warwick. There are dark circles under Warwick’s eyes and he bears the haggard expression of one that has been pushed too far.

“She be a bad influence,” he says in a rough whisper.

“Who?”

“The Queen.” Warwick’s hand tightens around his arm and Edmund fights the urge to shake him off. “Surely you do see that, cousin.”

All Edmund can see when he thinks of the Queen is of her sitting on the floor with Katharina, playing with baby Frederick, or when Katharina tells him all about the things Elizabeth is teaching her and the stories she tells.

“I have no idea what you be talking about, cousin,” he says, trying to keep his tone cool.

“Your blind loyalty to Edward is dangerous! You cannot see what she is doing!”

Annoyance curdles at the base of his throat. “I do not have time for this,” he snaps, wrenching his arm free. “Good day to you, sir.”

Perhaps his cousin is ill, hallucinating. That would explain the sweat on his brow, the pallor of his skin. There’s no reason for anyone to think she’s bad – all he has to do is see the how happy she makes both his brother and his wife, and how astute her observations about the court be. Yes, there are people who dislike her – Edmund and Edward’s own mother included – but surely that’s just the case of any Queen?

He vows to put it out of his mind and only tell Edward if something else happens.


End file.
